Play Me a Song
by Trinityangel
Summary: You've learned to play her. Beneath your long, elegant fingertips, you elicit a response from her that is sweeter than any sound your baby grand could ever make. HouseCameron. Established relationship. Fluff.


Play Me a Song  
Trinity Angel  
Rated T

You've learned to play her. Beneath your long, elegant fingertips, you elicit a response from her that is sweeter than any sound your baby grand could ever make. Sweet, delicate melodies echo with just the slightest touch of your fingers. _Your fingers._ She is an expanse of alabaster and ivory, separated by deep chasms that lurk just beneath her skin.

Like the black keys interrupting a colorless surface.

But that only makes her more perfect. Every time she stumbles, every time she slips, you love her a little more. With each misstep she takes, she falls a little further from the pedestal you've unconsciously placed her on. Her major chords slip into minor chords, as her regular scales slip into a blues scale with an ease that not even you have mastered.

Always start at her neck, gently press until she moans a reminder of just how in tune she is. You move into a basic scale after that, _andante_, nothing too difficult, there's always time for that later. Time to further explore each an every inch of a surface you've memorized and catalogued. There is always time to draw out each note from her parted lips with a series of movements that have been perfect, yet continue to be altered as the mood strikes you.

Never mind how she whispers your given name, that is a rhapsody in itself.

For now, however, you want to just remind her of the beautiful music you can make together, but only with her permission. Always with her permission. It doesn't matter how it's given, but you know when it's yours. Sometimes with her eyes; half lidded cerulean depths staring so deeply into yours that you would swear she saw straight through you. Through the carefully placed poison tipped barbs and thorns that litter your bitter exterior, straight through to the shoddy patch job you've tried to do on your heart. She probably would have never reached you were it not for the music you found she was capable of.

The second she sat at your baby, she, with that careless grace of hers, waltzed right through your defenses. Her fingers danced along the keys of your heartstrings with a melody that stole the breath from your lungs. With all the reverence you've ever witnessed, she poured a magnificently haunting melody into the air that left you speechless and left her with tears in her eyes. It was all there, the longing, the sorrow, the hope... You couldn't tear your eyes from the elegant curve of her neck into the always present mindful posture of her spine. Now you understand why. No matter how she swayed with her song, her posture remained, and you were transfixed by it.

As the last echoes of her heart-song cleared, she turned her head, offering you a glimpse of her profile. She opened her mouth to speak, but changed her mind. Any one with an inkling of musical talent would've known that she'd said all she needed to say; to speak after that would've shattered a perfectly etched moment. Instead, she sealed her lips and turned to gather the coat she'd left in your doorway.

She was three steps out the door, with three crystalline tears slipping over the slopes of her flushed cheeks before you stopped her with a hand around her delicate wrist. Now that she'd found her way in, could you really let her go? With each note, she'd peeled away a little more of herself, and whether she'd known it or not, a little more of you.

You'd waited for her permission then; you hadn't taken with out asking. Not this. This was too important, whether you would actually admit that out loud was irrelevant. What mattered was that for once in your life you wanted to do something right, to do something the way it was meant to be done.

Wilson would have been damn proud.

In fact, he'd be damned proud now if he could see you here. Not that you'd ever let him, because she is beside you, in all her glory, and that is something that you'll never share. Even with a best friend. You'll share her laugh, her smile, her ever baffling ability to care, but not this. This is yours alone and you're far from ready to remove your claim.

Over her spine, your fingers dance in alterations of practiced melodies, and even in her sleep she responds to you, the delicate curve of her spine deepening. Your fingers sweep lower until they're brushing the cotton sheet draped over her hips, and God, you want her again.

This should have faded, you think. This should be blowing up in your face, ending in dramatic tears the way you always knew it would. But it hasn't and the little blue box you have hidden in your pants pockets seems to state quite clearly that it won't. A year of cautious 'non-dates' and 'casual sex' --she always rolls her eyes at that-- yet, you'd still walked by the jeweler's no less than seven times. Wilson said if you hadn't made up your mind, he was going home. You said that maybe if he'd been this cautious he wouldn't be on divorce number three.

A tiny bit more pressure from your extended fingers and you know she'll come alive under the tutelage of your hand, she always does, but you wait, merely lingering in the moment, planning out your next symphony, her next performance.

A small smile curls the corner of her lips upward and you can't help but wonder if she's dreaming about you. She shifts on her side of the bed and you quickly close your eyes, only to be met with a small short sound that could be laughter.

"You're getting slow."

"And you're getting fat."

"Doesn't seem to affect your staring problem."

"Ooohh, what are you gonna do about it?"

"Wanna take this outside?"

"Cameron, who the hell says that anymore, and to a _cripple_ no less?"

She laughs and you wonder if she thinks she's won this round. You'll be benevolent and let her think she has, especially when she slides to your side of the bed. Pretending to be uninterested in the muse now toying with your hand, you try to ignore the way she's molded herself to your good side. You spent years playing this game, but you don't remember the rules anymore, and honestly, you don't want to. You still try to hold out a little longer, if nothing else, just to prove that you can.

You think you just might make it to a minute when she whispers in your ear, "Play me a song."

All your selective hearing heard was, _'Play me'_.

The music is only seconds behind, and you're only getting warmed up.

Start with her neck...

AN: The song I pictured Allison playing was _Eternity Memories of Lightwaves._


End file.
